


The Art of Patience

by Spectre_Anon



Series: Out of the Fire [7]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Genji busy fretting in the background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23698063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spectre_Anon/pseuds/Spectre_Anon
Summary: Zenyatta is sure there must be a polite response to attempted murder.
Series: Out of the Fire [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/748386
Comments: 18
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Split into two parts because it was getting long (second part coming who knows when). Side story for my main fic 'gaining ground', so I would highly recommend you read that one first to avoid spoilers.

Rust bucket. Toaster. Scrap heap. Bag of bolts. Tin can. 

Tekhartha Zenyatta was vastly familiar with these terms, as he suspected most omnics were. 

There were still so many that opposed the mere existence of their kind. Fear, perhaps, or resentment over wrongs the years had not yet dulled enough to erase.

He'd lost count of the times people had ranted about 'your war', as if it were _his_ in any way but name. He had been a pile of unassembled parts while the omnic crisis raged, casually minding his own business, but he doubted that mattered. Humans were not concerned with technicalities. They were all raw emotion, hurt and hate and all the other things they told him he could not possess as they spat in his face and dismissed his life as nothing more than a dream.

Zenyatta had spent twenty years hearing the same insults, and he was, if anything, tired. Two decades deadened the impact somewhat. 

So to arrive at Overwatch and find that the entire team did not welcome him with open arms was not surprising. Mildly disappointing, yes, but nothing he hadn't already come to expect.

Genji was the one to take offense. 

“You should not have to put up with it,” he told him, as if it were news.

“I should not,” Zenyatta agreed readily.

“Then why do you?”

“It is easier.”

Genji cocked his head to the side, and the dubious dip of his tone was unmistakable. “I did not take you for one to choose the easy way out, master.”

“Ah,” Zenyatta hummed, “you thought I meant easier for me?”

“Don't you?”

Zenyatta considered the question. He steepled his fingers in front of him, sensors focused on the training range that spread out before the two of them. Far below the lithe form of Lena Oxton zipped between manufactured obstacles in a blur of yellow and blue. 

While he had only graced the halls of headquarters for a matter of days, he’d already taken to watching those on the training range when he had the opportunity. There was something fascinating about seeing the different ways they approached what was ostensibly the same place. The goals they set, the targets they marked, the weapons they chose...

“Confrontation is not always the answer,” he said eventually. “You must know when force can be applied, and when it will only cause something to break. Have you heard of the tale, perhaps, of the sun and the wind, who held a contest to decide the stronger? They decided that whoever could force a traveller to remove his coat should win. And so it was that the wind blew with all the force he could muster, yet the more he raged, the harder he blew, the tighter the traveller wrapped his coat around himself. It was the sun that warmed the traveller enough that he removed his coat of his own volition.”

Genji was quiet. “You think you will win them over?”

“I think words do not trouble me so much, and I have the luxury of time,” he said, watching as Lena leaped over a stack of metal crates and dived for the finish line she’d marked in white paint. “Demanding an end to vulgarity will not change the opinion of those around me, they will find a way to make it clear. Far better, then, to give them the chance to learn.”

“And if they do not take that chance?”

Zenyatta shrugged. “Then it is their loss.”

* * *

There was one individual, however, who took things to another level. Zenyatta had been warned in no uncertain terms upon his arrival that the man might present difficulties, and that he was best to avoid him and remain on his guard. Something about him was a fascination to Zenyatta though.

He was accustomed to the disdainful glances that humans could shoot him - to cruel words, snide comments, whispered hate that was far too easy to overhear, intentional or not.

What Jamison Fawkes brought to the table was a manic fury he had never before witnessed. There was something _off_ about it, something beyond the hatred that bordered on fear. Jamison looked at him as if he were a threat. He looked at him as if he were two steps away from an attack.

Zenyatta did not know if he should be offended or flattered. It was, however, refreshing. His first meeting with the man gave him a lot to think about.

Angela tracked him down the next day with nothing but apologies. “It was my job to keep an eye on him, this was... well, we were hoping for a more careful introduction. I don't know what he said to you but I'm sure it was inexcusable.”

“You have no need to worry, it was my fault for startling him,” he assured her.

“None of this is your fault,” she said firmly. “If the world was only a little more open minded...”

“Then my brother Mondatta would have had very little to do,” Zenyatta remarked, and immediately regretted it.

They grew quiet at the mention of the other omnic. It might have been months ago, but his death was still fresh enough that the name left an impact, a shadow that hung in tangible swathes around them. 

Zenyatta's admiration for him had run deep. Remembering still hurt, like the scrape of metal parts that didn't sit right inside his chassis. He knew though that Mondatta would not want them to suffer at his loss, any more than he would want them to take up arms in the name of vengeance. Death was only a natural part of life – it was a tragedy to lose him so soon, but something that must be accepted. 

If philosophy were a true cure for pain, Zenyatta suspected he would have transcended all earthly woes long ago, but the sting of an absent friend was an important one. It marked the loss of something significant. It marked his own capacity to care. It marked the fact he’d ever held the capacity to begin with. To acknowledge it was not to be overcome by it, for to feel nothing at all would be far worse.

“Well,” Angela said, pulling on her usual smile, “in any case, Jamison is the exception to the rule. We want you to feel welcome here - your choice to join us is greatly appreciated, and I’m sure in time things will settle down.”

Zenyatta inclined his head. “You have my thanks.”

The pleasantries seemed to soothe over the earlier misstep, and Angela invited him to tea with some of the other Overwatch agents. It was with genuine gratitude that he accepted. 

While Zenyatta could not drink, he did enjoy the brewing of tea, and considered himself to be well versed in the art. There was something to be said for watching humans enjoy a beverage he had created, in the simple appreciation they were quick to voice. 

Thusly Angela, Ana, Satya, Winston, Mei, Genji and Hanzo soon became regular companions for a warm drink and a pleasant chat - although Hanzo took a great deal of cajoling.

It was a welcome routine, and Zenyatta took comfort in it as the days passed and he began to contemplate the best approach to the problem of Jamison Fawkes.

He knew the Junker was avoiding him. There was nothing subtle about it. Sometimes he would catch a glimpse of wild blonde hair disappearing around a corner, or the clatter of peg leg and crutches, but any time he did intrude before an escape could be made he was always met by pure hostility.

Genji was no help at all.

Any begrudging respect the cyborg held for the man quickly eroded one overheard slight at a time. Zenyatta was only thankful his old pupil was wiser than to act on his indignation, much preferring to list off Jamison’s faults in an almost childish tirade.

The latest offence was apparently Jamison referring to him as an ‘evil hover toaster’, which Zenyatta found mildly amusing, and Genji remained unimpressed by. 

“He thinks he’s funny, even when no one laughs. He’s rude, obnoxious, and… I don't think he showers very often,” Genji tacked on, seemingly as an afterthought.

“Nor do I, Genji.”

The cyborg sighed. “Master... you're made of metal.”

Zenyatta's jokes had a way of going over people's heads sometimes. It was an endless disappointment to him.

He did his best to soothe Genji’s irritation with the usual mix of anecdotes and philosophy, and wondered, not for the first time, if there were a simpler solution to the problem he was not seeing.

For all the flaws Genji was quick to list, tales of Jamison’s recent bravery were not hard to come by, and it was common knowledge that he had formed a bond of sorts with the youngest agents. 

If that were true, then it stood to reason they would have a better understanding of the man. It was an ideal place to start.

* * *

Lucio he had spoken to before, and had been impressed by the young musician's talent and sincerity. Both a firm supporter of omnic and human harmony and a dreamer prepared to fight for the rights of others, he was the perfect example of what Overwatch should stand for. They had many excellent conversations on the progressive nature of cities like Numbani to the teachings of the Iris.

On the subject of Jamison, however, he remained surprisingly vague.

“He’s… I dunno, fun? Little too intense sometimes, but kinda in a good way?”

“He seems very different from yourself.”

“Yeah, you could say that.” The fond smile Lucio had worn faded, and he folded his arms, glancing to the side rather than directly into Zenyatta’s sensors. “Look, I’ll be straight with you man… he’s got issues that are _really_ not my place to get into, but he’s a good guy when you get to know him. That’s all I can tell you. Just… don’t push him. He’s real touchy about the whole omnic crisis thing. You being here… it’s gonna take time.”

Zenyatta nodded solemnly. “Then it is a good thing patience is something you and I both understand.”

“It’s something he’ll test,” Lucio warned. “But… I think it’ll be worth it. For him too.”

“In that case, I look forward to it,” Zenyatta said, with complete earnestness.

* * *

Zenyatta’s talks with Hana Song were fewer and often brief, but when he finally managed to ease the latest conversation away from balance patches and corporate sponsorship over to his own concerns, she didn’t even blink.

“Who, that loser? Pfft, yeah, I’m basically an expert.” With her elbow propped up on the kitchen table she rested her chin in her hand, the other still busy scrolling through her phone. “Take it from me, Rat’s just a huge dork who loves puns, blowing stuff up, making people think he’s tough, and pretending he’s not insecure when it’s totally obvious after, like, the tenth time he tells you how great he is. Also he’ll start burning things if he gets bored. Or angry. Or… yeah, just don’t leave him with anything flammable.”

“Fascinating,” Zenyatta said.

He was partially preoccupied with the task of making tea, yet another regular part of his endless quest to distract Genji from the anti-omnic sentiment that continued to waft through parts of the base. A camomile blend this time - calming qualities seemed prudent.

As he set it to brew, Hana sighed. He heard a click as she set the phone down, and when he turned to look she was focused on him.

“For real though,” she said, “he’s a big softie deep down. Wants to be friendly even when he thinks people want to kill him half the time, and then he gets all attached and doesn’t know what to do about it and maybe almost gets himself killed trying to do the right thing even when I _tell_ him he’s being an idiot, and… yeah.”

She shrugged, letting her hands drop back to the table. “ _Maaaybe_ not too big on omnics though, but you probs already knew that.”

“He made it clear the first time we met,” Zenyatta agreed wryly.

She winced. “Wow, glad I missed that conversation.

“Calling it a conversation would be generous.”

“ _Ouch_. For both of you.”

“Indeed,” he said. “I had hoped a warm introduction might do well, perhaps assure him that my presence was benign, but I may have achieved the opposite. I believe he hates me.”

“He doesn’t _hate_ you,” Hana protested, or maybe attempted to reassure him, he wasn’t sure.

Zenyatta simply waited.

Eventually Hana slumped in defeat. “Okay, yeah, that sounds like a total lie when I put it like that,” she admitted. “What I mean is he doesn’t hate _you_ , just this… image of you he’s built up in his head. Trust me, I know what that’s like.”

“Then what is your advice?”

She grinned. “I thought you were meant to be the wise one.”

“Wisdom comes in many forms. To take only my own council would be a mistake.”

Hana frowned. She picked up her phone again, but it appeared to be an act only to keep her hands occupied rather than any interest in the device. “Honestly? I don’t know. I’d say let him get to know you but he’d probably rather shoot his other leg off. Just… don’t be what he wants you to be. Show him he can’t make you into that, cos really, he’s looking for an excuse to hate something. It makes things easier.”

“He may think it does,” Zenyatta agreed, checking on the tea, “but hate is a heavy burden to bear.”

“Maybe,” she said softly. 

He poured one steaming mug, and offered a second to the girl although she politely declined. Setting the lone beverage down on the counter he turned his attention back to her.

“It sounds to me as if you may have troubles of your own. If you are ever in need of a willing ear, I always have time for such pleasant company.”

She turned her phone around in her hands. “I’m fine, honest. But thanks anyway.”

Any further conversation was cut short as the distinctive sound of peg leg and crutches clattered their way into the kitchen. Hana looked up with a start, but somehow managed to plaster a smile onto her face and offer a friendly wave. “Hiya, Rat!”

Jamison didn’t bother to respond, his attention was fixed firmly on the omnic.

Zenyatta offered a greeting of his own and was met with a steady glare. 

There was no disguising the open contempt written across the man’s features, nor the hostility in his approach, although Zenyatta suspected Jamison very much intended him to notice.

“Far as I know ya don't eat or drink nothin', so what ya doin' here ?” he demanded.

While hardly polite, it was not the worst thing he could have expected to hear, so Zenyatta simply gestured to the cup of tea resting on the counter. “You are correct, I do not, but I took the liberty of preparing some tea for Genji. He seems troubled of late, and I thought it might do him some good.”

Jamison just narrowed his eyes. “Well, if ya done then maybe ya should go give it to 'im, rather than hangin' about in everyone's bloody way.”

Ah. If there was a moment to push for progress, Zenyatta doubted this was it. 

“I suppose I should,” he said airily. Picking up the cup, he inclined his head to Hana. “Thank you for the conversation Hana, it was most pleasant.”

“Sure...” she said, looking uncertain.

With the tea clasped in both hands, he drifted off toward the doorway, a path that unfortunately took him past Jamison. The man seemed to tense like a coil wound ever tighter the closer Zenyatta moved, yet he stayed rooted to the spot, his wild gaze tracking his movements. His muscles twitched. And there it was, as Zenyatta had always known, that telling gleam of fear so artfully masked behind all his venom.

He only offered the man a nod and a gentle word of farewell before he left the kitchen behind.

Patience was the key to any victory. It had never failed him before.

* * *

The first attempt on his life was not so much a surprise as it was a disappointment. He’d known the moment he’d seen Jamison up on that cliff that it had not been for a well needed heart to heart. 

The man still moved all wrong, tensed, prowling forward with those wide eyes and fingers that would not still. There was no tentativeness to his words, only raw and unguided hate amidst bitter, chewed out lies. Oh, Zenyatta had known. The problem was he couldn’t think of a polite way to admit it. 

So, like any well meaning omnic, he’d ignored the matter entirely, and then Jamison attempted to throw him off a cliff.

It was instinct that caused his body to move. A pressure applied, force he knew how to redirect with a simple twist and flick of his arms. Years of training amidst his travels left no hesitation in his reaction.

Just like that, the pressure flowed off him like water, and Jamison went tumbling over the edge. Zenyatta just had time to catch the terror in the man’s eyes. He disappeared in a whirl of flailing limbs, and Zenyatta hovered where he was, wondering if he could have reached out to grab him.

A splash hit several seconds later.

It occurred to him that he may have just killed a man.

Cautiously, Zenyatta peered over the edge at the churning water below. There was no sight of the gangly Junker, not even a gleam of his bright orange prosthetics amidst the dark blue ocean.

Being constructed entirely of metal, circuitry and wiring, rescue attempts on his part were out of the question. With no other options he contacted Athena and sent out an alert to nearby agents that could assist.

Then, he backed up from the edge and lowered his hover until it was a mere handspan from the ground, and waited patiently. 

Fretting about the matter would be unproductive. Jamison would live or die, and until he was in a position to influence the outcome there was no need to trouble himself. He could question his own actions later. 

If he was lucky, Jamison would have the same opportunity.

One thing Zenyatta was sure of was that Overwatch deserved commendation for their swift response. In only moments Winston was on the scene, Commander Morrison seconds behind, and as he relayed the situation they wasted no time in launching into action.

Soon they had Jamison back on dry land, and after a bit of work they had him breathing, hacking up sea water while he shivered miserably against the ground. 

It was a pitiful sight. Despite his instincts Zenyatta kept his distance.

He could catalogue potential injuries and medical complications based on his understanding of human physiology, could sense the sudden, wretched discomfort of a being jerked back to consciousness in a body barely functioning, but he could not act. Steel hands would never be the comfort he wished them to be.

Morrison had clear control of the matter and the omnic hovered ten feet back, offering the only thing he could under the circumstances. He sent out harmony to soothe the soul, to ease the pain and in turn calm the body as it did the mind, an energy that hovered in a golden glow above the Junker. Zenyatta felt a measure of satisfaction as he watched it swirl. Physical wounds were not his specialty. They never had been.

The question, then, became how to extract himself now that his usefulness was at an end. Angela was on her way, Jamison was stable, Morrison had settled into his natural role as commander of any disaster he walked into, and Zenyatta had other things to be doing. He knew his face was not the one Jamison wanted to see. Given the way they had so recently parted, he wasn’t even offended.

Silently he drifted backward, closer to the door.

He could have ended things like that, calmly passing on what information he had when the doctor arrived and finding Genji for a cup of tea and a meditation on the nature of karma, and the importance of safety rails, but Jamison had other ideas. 

Jamison had decided that he wanted to be upright.

The man lurched into a sitting position with a complete lack of grace, startling both Winston and Morrison, and proceeded to sway like a sapling in the breeze. His eyes were unfocused, mouth agape. His blonde hair was dark with sea water and stuck to his pale skin in wet clumps. If he was conscious, it was barely, and if he was thinking, it was nothing sensible.

Morrison was unimpressed. “Lie back down and keep still,” he warned, “Angela is on her way but you don't want to worsen anything before she gets here.”

Jamison did not listen. 

It was doubtful he could hear at all in such a state, though this did nothing to ease Morrison’s obvious exasperation. The man reached out to settle a hand on Jamison’s shoulder and help him back into the recovery position, but his attempt was cut short. 

The second he made contact, Jamison flinched. He pulled back from Morrison’s grip and bared his teeth in a snarl that made its threat explicitly clear.

The Commander froze.

Jamison managed to hold his pose for all of a second before his balance wavered and he toppled back to the ground. He did not rise immediately, but lay still, drawing weak and ragged breaths.

Winston was the first to speak. “Is he alright? Given, uh, the circumstances I mean?”

“Alright enough to disobey orders,” Morrison muttered, but there was an underlying discomfort to the words, and the frown on his face that was uneasy.

Zenyatta wondered if it were his first time realising the extent of what he dealt with. He, of course, had known for a long time. 

Omnics were good readers of body language. This was only natural, considering the majority of them lacked mobile facial features, and couldn’t rely on a raised eyebrow or a downturned lip to dictate the shifting mood of a conversation. 

He observed people with an attentiveness for every part of them - their movements, where they placed themselves, the distances they chose, the speed they reacted, how they angled themselves or idled, what drew their attention. 

Jamison had given him a lot to work with. He was animated, to say the least. The most important conclusion he had drawn though was that Jamison looked for threats. Constantly. When he found them, he was swift to return his own.

The sad truth of the matter was that such behaviour was never drawn from thin air.

All of this he could have explained to Morrison, except that he did not trust himself to speak for fear of worsening an already terse situation. His voice would only fuel the fire. What better way to spur Jamison’s irrational behaviour than to give him the threat he sought, to reveal himself now, when the man’s disorientation and helplessness were the most obvious? 

Idly, he contemplated his chances of making a hasty retreat while he still had the chance.

Any such fantasy was soon cut short as Jamison visibly strained, hauling himself upright for a second time. 

Morrison’s hands were splayed open, cautiously raised a respectful distance away, but he didn’t make the mistake of attempting to touch him again.

“Um, maybe it's best if you just take it easy for now?” Winston suggested.

For a moment it seemed as if that was where the matter would end. The figure of Jamison did nothing but sit, and as the seconds ticked by Morrison’s hands began to lower, although he still maintained his watchful stance. Then, with eerie slowness, Jamison’s head began to turn.

His gaze swept across the rocky surface of the cliff, past Morrison’s stiff shoulders, past the hulking silhouette Winston cast against the morning sun, drifting onward until finally, like a latch snapping into place, it found the omnic.

Jamison stared. 

Jamison only really stared like that when he wanted to make a threat. Under normal circumstances, his eyes darted intermittently in all directions, checking his peripherals and snapping to any movement or unknown quantity he needed to assess. Zenyatta was vividly familiar with the particular way Jamison could pin a person with his gaze though. He’d experienced it to some extent almost every time they’d crossed paths since his arrival at headquarters, and when he met those eyes now he recognised the intent behind them, even as he understood how hollow it was.

Sodden, swaying, and wordless, the menace was dampened. It was almost a parody of itself, were it not for the sheer determination poured into the act. 

And what response could one conceivably give to that?

Zenyatta had been mocked, and ridiculed, and accused of far more horrors than he’d had the time to possibly accomplish, he’d been written off as no more than a heartless machine playing a part, and twice even condemned for blasphemy. So, it was fair to say he’d seen his share of hostility... but for all the distaste he’d met in twenty years of life he didn’t think he’d ever encountered anything quite like that stare. It was in equal parts what made Jamison so fascinating, and so continuously unreachable.

Beneath that gaze Zenyatta did not wilt, but he waited.

* * *

Later, when Angela had checked the Junker over and Morrison finally relaxed enough to take a step back, he came to stand by Zenyatta’s side. It was with a very careful kind of casualness that he asked about what had happened.

Zenyatta did not consider himself much of a liar, in the same way he did not consider himself a fighter, but he was perfectly capable of fulfilling both roles when the need came. 

“He was admiring the view when I came up, I fear I must have startled him for he lost his balance and fell. It was entirely my fault. I should have left when I realised he was here.”

Morrison studied him. “You’re sure that’s what happened?”

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

There was a shrewdness to the man’s gaze, but whatever suspicions he had he appeared to shake them aside. He sighed. “No reason. But I trust your word, and you shouldn't blame yourself. It was an accident, and you called for assistance as soon as it happened. Fawkes may well have slipped even without you here and then no one would have known before it was too late.”

None of them questioned his story further. Everyone was far more concerned with making sure Jamison was well, and didn’t immediately throw himself into harm’s way the second their attention drifted.

It was only much later that any doubts were expressed, and only Genji who spoke them aloud.

“He really slipped? That’s all that happened?”

“How else would he have ended up in the water?” Zenyatta asked.

With his faceplate removed Genji’s expression was bare to the world, narrowed eyes and thin lips amidst a sea of scars that pinched and twisted his pale skin. “Master, if he attempted to harm you…”

“If he did, then it has worked out very poorly for him,” Zenyatta pointed out, tilting the pink watering can over the flowerbed. “I appreciate your concern, Genji, but I do not require your help in this matter.”

Gardening was a noble hobby, he had decided, and a fantastic way to pass the time. All it required was care and patience, and life would flourish. 

Genji paced the small terrace with none of the calm the place deserved, and it was clear he was working up to something more to say. He paused by the shade of the overhanging roof, faceplate tight in his hands. “He takes advantage of your good nature,” he said softly. “I do not trust him. He’s unstable, he’s killed before.”

“And you yourself have never taken a life?”

Genji looked up suddenly. “ _That_ is different.”

Serenely, Zenyatta drifted over to the cramped vegetable patch Mei had been cultivating. “And has your brother not attempted to take yours? Have you not offered him forgiveness despite actions he felt compelled toward?”

Genji was silent for several seconds. He heard the sharp click of metal as his faceplate snapped back into place, and the cyborg moved out of the shadows to stand beside him. “The past I can forgive. This is in the present. Don’t grant him more opportunities than you can afford, please. Your life is just as important.”

With a hum of agreement, he held the watering can out in offering to his former pupil. “Thank you, Genji, but I know what I am doing. Please do not burden yourself.”

Hesitantly, Genji took the watering can and began showering the plants while Zentyatta folded his hands in his lap, content to watch. He enjoyed moments like these. The simplicity of them, the gentleness - there was no urgency here, no danger, nothing but the effortlessness of existence.

He almost missed Genji’s words, they were spoken so quietly. “It’s not a burden.”


	2. Chapter 2

The second attempt upon his life came as more of a surprise, and if anything, equally more of a disappointment. 

Zenyatta had known Jamison’s invitation did not come from a place of goodwill. His approach was wrong, his words careless, and the way he seemed to relish a thought only he was privy to suggested he had something planned.

Zenyatta had of course graciously accepted.

At the time he had anticipated a mockery of some kind… perhaps a burning effigy. The opportunity to publicly humiliate or insult a being Jamison still viewed as an enemy would naturally appeal to the man. 

What he hadn’t accounted for was the sheer audacity of attempted murder in front of the entirety of Overwatch. It was methodically planned, and incredibly rash, and Zenyatta might have applauded his ingenuity were it not for the chilling nature of the act.

Jamison would have had an entire host of witnesses who could attest to the whole thing being nothing more than an ‘accident’. He would have, if Zenyatta had not been polite enough to switch places with McCree. He would have, if Jamison hadn’t been compelled to move.

Things happened very quickly.

So it was that a fun night of fireworks on the rooftop transformed into a chaotic scramble as Jamison tackled McCree, an explosion went off, Genji pinned the Junker beneath his blade only to be hoisted into the air like a rag-doll by Mako, and Zenyatta began to wondered if he had made a misstep. 

A quiet part of him had hoped that regardless of Jamison’s motives, his presence might be a good thing - a chance to begin to familiarise Jamison with his place amongst the other Overwatch agents in a manner that was non-confrontational. He was here by invitation, not intruding unexpectedly as he had in the past. That had seemed wise. Yet it had very nearly spelled his own death, and endangered the life of another.

Jamison was laughing - more of a cackle really, but it sounded off kilter, and when Morrison raised his voice it cut off sharply and left only silence.

No one moved. 

“McCree,” Morrison continued in his usual tone, “you alright?”

Sitting up slowly, the man appeared to be asking himself the same question. He reached for his hat, placing it back upon his head. The action grounded him. “Think so,” he said at last as he ran a hand across his jaw. “Bit of a shock, but no harm done.”

“Good. Now I think some of us are going to go have a talk. Rutledge, put Genji down.”

Mako wasn’t watching Morrison though. His back was turned, focus solely on the gangly Junker in front of him, who’s breaths came rapidly and eyes darted from one agent to the next. Still attempting to assess the situation. Still searching for some advantage to gain, a weakness to exploit, but falling short as the impossibility of it all hit him. 

Everyone knew what he had done. Denial was futile, fighting back would only make matters worse, and there he was faced with a mess of his own creation and nowhere left to run.

Zenyatta almost pitied him. _Almost_.

With one last look around him Jamison gave the smallest of nods, and Mako dropped the cyborg without a word.

“Fawkes, I think you should come with me,” Morrison barked.

As if in a trance he moved to comply, gaze set low, avoiding faces, avoiding eye contact, his shoulders tense as they stripped him of his weapons. 

Once that was done Ana and Morrison each took one side of him, Fareeha and Angela boxing him in from behind as they began to march him away from the rooftop and the crowd of silent onlookers.

“You’d better come too,” Morrison said as he passed the omnic. He sounded tired.

Zenyatta inclined his head. He had intended to regardless of what the commander had to say, but he thought better of admitting it. “Of course. I’m sure this can all be resolved.”

Jamison’s gait stuttered for a moment, peg leg failing to find its place, but he recovered swiftly and kept walking. One step at a time. Never looking back. Never objecting.

For a man so vocal it was eerie, the only sign of the underlying emotion was the tightness of his fists, and Zenyatta was sure that if it were not for the steel of his prosthesis and the fabric of his glove, he would be drawing blood. 

Zenyatta spoke only only a few solemn words to Genji before he joined the procession, instructing his former pupil to keep watch over McCree. He suspected they would be having a long conversation later, but that was a problem for the future, and one they would both handle better with time to reflect upon the evening. For now… for now there were more pressing matters to address.

As they moved into the hallways of headquarters, the heavy tread of Mako’s footsteps followed close behind them. 

_How_ this would all be resolved Zenyatta didn’t know. He had tried to protect Jamison from the consequence of his own actions once before, but apparently that hadn’t been the lesson he had hoped it would be. Was it naive of him to think that this time would be any different? 

And yet… for all the horrific nature of the plan itself, Jamison had made two choices. The first was to go through with it. The second was to save the life of McCree when it had fallen apart, at the cost of revealing his own involvement. That single act had merit. One could not weigh them against each other, but somewhere, buried under whatever layers Jamison had constructed, was something resembling a conscience.

What _was_ a humble monk to do? 

They soon arrived outside a small meeting room, and it was here that Morrison stopped. He spared their little group a grim look before settling his attention on the Junker they all surrounded.

“We're going to have a talk,” he said to Jamison, each word punctuated and sharp, as if he needed to press them into him, “and we're going to set some things straight. Is that clear?”

“Whatever ya say,” Jamison muttered, shuffling on the spot. Morrison waited but Jamison had nothing more to add, simply continuing to fidget, and after a moment he just gestured the group in.

Zenyatta entered first, and after a few seconds of hesitation Jamison begrudgingly traipsed after him.

It was at this point that the door slammed shut.

As far as Zenyatta knew, that was not part of the plan.

“Lockdown protocol initiated,” Athena transmitted, her voice ringing clear in his head. “Apologies, there is an intruder on site. Please stand by for updates.”

The fates must be in a fickle mood indeed. Still, he supposed there was no helping it. He sent her a quick acknowledgement and turned his attention back to his new cellmate. 

Jamison had not moved a step.

There were worse people to be locked in a room with, but Zenyatta doubted it would be a very long list. The man had already tried to kill him twice. Once with witnesses. And, given everything that had just transpired, he could well be feeling that there was little left to lose, which was a very dangerous mindset to deal with.

Silently he weighed his options.

He had little doubt that he could take the man in a fight if he had to - deprived of his weapons, Jamison was not the threat he would otherwise have been. Not weak, no, but likely to underestimate his target, and unprepared for a fully trained martial artist that could tune down their pain receptors at will. 

He could take the preemptive approach. If he struck Jamison immediately with one of the orbs that encircled his neck, he could perhaps render him unconscious and prevent their situation developing into anything needlessly dramatic. Certainly it would hurt, but a bruised temple was nothing Angela couldn't fix up later.

But even as he contemplated the idea he became aware of an unexpected detail.

It was not _him_ that Jamison’s attention was on.

The Junker was fixated upon the door with a sudden manic energy, scrabbling at its smooth surface in an utterly futile attempt to pry it open. He had to register the impossibility of the task on some level. Had to understand, surely. But there was no logic to his approach, nothing but frantically clawing fingers that quickly devolved into hammering fists that beat at the metal with a painful force.

Zenyatta watched.

After a moment, he began to drift backward. Carefully he positioned himself at the opposite side of the room and lowered his hover, folding his hands in his lap and adopting his least threatening pose.

Perhaps this too he would regret, but he could not find it in his mechanical heart to strike the man at that particular moment. He had the growing suspicion that choosing violence under these circumstances... in this place... that such an act might well be the worst possible mistake he could make. Whether or not it spared them an ugly confrontation in the present, the consequences for the future were an unknown. This was not neutral ground.

Resigning himself to the inevitable, Zenyatta waited.

It did not take long for Jamison to remember he was not alone.

All at once the mad attack on the door ceased and the man froze. His head snapped around and he stared at Zenyatta, wide eyed and breathing hard, still rooted to the spot, back pressed against the door as if he were glued to it.

“You appear to be in some kind of panic,” Zenyatta informed him softly, in case this had escaped his notice. “It would be best if you focus on your breathing, otherwise you’re likely to hyperventilate.”

Jamison continued to stare while his hands opened and closed of their own accord. Zenyatta was uncertain if his words had registered at all. 

The Junker swallowed dryly, a faint tremble wracking his lanky frame, but after a few seconds his breaths began to form a pattern. Still too fast. Still too shallow. An improvement, though, and the man looked better for it, the usual calculating edge to his gaze beginning to return.

Well, he was listening at least, which was a far sight better than things could have gone given their previous interactions.

Then, of course, came the threats. 

Jamison began by baring his teeth and straightening up to his proper height. “I could kill ya, could tear ya to pieces.”

“Of course,” Zenyatta agreed readily.

This clearly threw him for a second. It was not the denial, nor retort he had perhaps learned to anticipate in such conflicts. He’d said it before - Jamison looked for threats. The important thing in this situation was not to grant him one. 

Jamison held his ground, still sizing up his opponent. He swallowed again. “Used to take scrap metal to pieces for a living, ya know, would be easy.”

“Most certainly.”

Jamison remained frozen. Several seconds ticked by in which he did nothing but watch the omnic with the same intense scrutiny as before.

Then he took a shaky breath, and said in a quieter voice, “I could.”

Zenyatta wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince. He settled for nodding along agreeably, because that was the polite thing to do.

Here, he had all the composure, all the cards, and whether or not Jamison registered that on a subconscious level, it was a truth he was determined to avoid, but thankfully one that Zenyatta willing to let slide. If feeding that particular delusion helped to ease any of what he was feeling at that moment, so be it. 

Jamison gnawed at his lip. His brows were drawn tight in concentration, piecing something together, and abruptly he switched tactics, grinning through clenched teeth. “Tell ya what...” he reasoned, “tell ya what, you make 'em let me out o' here and maybe I'll let ya off this once...”

Ah. They were at the bargaining phase, were they? 

Reluctantly, Zenyatta shook his head. “I must apologize, I do not think that will be possible. Athena has initiated a lockdown protocol.”

“A what now?” Jamison began, but immediately cut himself off with a frustrated whine. He was scratching at the door again without seeming to notice. “Shit, it doesn't matter, I don't care alright? I don't care if it was Soldier, or the monkey, or the doc, or the bloody king himself, whatever tosser locked it ya tell 'em they better open it right now or I'll take the whole bloody building down!”

He was still shaking. Zenyatta did not think he had ever stopped. It would have been easy to call his bluff, because that was all he was at the moment, wasn’t it? Threats, and promises, and teeth - all empty of anything but desperation. The only thing he had left. 

_Strip a man of everything, and you see him for who he is..._

Zenyatta knew then, as he had before, that at his core Jamison was a desperate man. And that desperation never quite left him. 

It could drive him to terrible things, but perhaps… no, indeed, Zenyatta could not entirely blame him for it. He had never learned any other way. But he could. Zenyatta felt sure of it. 

He had spent several enlightening minutes locked in a room with his would-be murderer, and was still very much alive, which was a promising sign. Genji might not agree, but the cyborg was still short sighted sometimes. There were many other outcomes that could have happened had Jamison’s priorities been different. 

A man who would risk his own life for others, plot murder but give himself up when a colleague’s safety was at risk, and, in the midst of what amounted to a panic attack, resort to bargaining with a being he despised when it refused to offer any hostility in kind. A difficult case? Certainly. But not hopeless.

Putting his own musing to one side, Zenyatta tilted his head as he sent a quick transmission to Athena in hopes of an update. She was short and to the point, a faintly distracted air to her voice as it cut directly into his head.

“I wish that I could help, but the lockdown is in place for a reason,” Zenyatta relayed, “Athena tells me there is an intruder who's managed to slip past her surveillance. Their location is currently unknown but the lockdown should hold them, or force them to reveal themselves if they try to bypass any defences... she only requires enough time to run thermal scans of the complex.” 

He paused as she hastily tacked on a final note. “She also says she is sorry if she upset you, and she did not broadcast any message to this location as she knows you dislike it when she speaks to you. She thought it might... aggravate the situation.”

Jamison snarled. “If there's an intruder all the more reason I should be out there! I'll send 'em packin', ya just gotta get me outta here, right? Even you gotta see the sense in that. I just need too... I can't-”

All at once his eyes seemed to glaze over for a second, fixing on some unseen point while his prosthetic hand clawed sightlessly at the door he was pressed to. Zenyatta could hear his breathing picking up again, returning to the frantic pace of earlier. Jamison grit his teeth, narrowing his gaze as he managed to refocus on Zenyatta.

“I could kill ya,” he bit out with what little air he had.

Zenyatta just nodded. “I understand,” he said.

It was still not an answer the man knew what to do with. A whine built in his throat as the heave of his chest lost any semblance of rhythm, unable to move forward or back. Trapped as much by the door as by his own internal struggle. There was something almost pleading about the way he stared at the omnic, as if he _wanted_ Zenyatta to attack. Wanted him to do anything to rid him of the paralysis he was locked in.

But Zenyatta only waited, passive and silent, and their strange standoff continued.

It was a mere five minutes from the moment the door closed by his internal chronometer, but it felt like a lifetime when it finally slid open and Jamison went tumbling out into the corridor. He scrambled up in an instant, and Zenyatta let him go.

He counted slowly to ten. A chance for peace, an opportunity to gain a distance they both sorely needed. Then he lifted his hover from the ground to his usual height, and drifted out of the empty meeting room.

Angela was the first one waiting for him, clinging to the doorframe and concern hanging heavy on her words. “Zenyatta, are you alright?”

Her gaze was businesslike, scanning him for any sign of injury, and he held his arms out in a clear show of health while she completed her inspection. “I’m quite well, Angela, thank you for asking.”

She let out a sigh of relief. “Thank god, we thought-”

Abruptly she cut herself off, a flicker of embarrassment crossing her features.

It seemed no one held much faith in Zenyatta’s fighting prowess, which was disappointing, but then again he’d never had a chance to demonstrate his skills. Genji had introduced him only as a diplomat and a passable healer, but never a warrior. Talk softly and avoid conflict and the world branded you a pacifist… life was funny like that.

“Ya thought what?” A voice spat, and all eyes turned suddenly to Jamison.

He’d taken refuge behind Mako, but he leaned out now, the venom in his gaze unmistakable.

“Jamison,” Angela began, her tone gentle and her hands raised as she left Zenyatta’s side and took a step toward him. 

Mako growled and she froze. 

He stood like an immovable wall, his charge on one side and the rest of the group on the other, and from his stance it was clear that no one was going to pass. 

“Ya shut me in there an' you were fuckin' worried about the bot?” Jamison demanded, a hysterical laugh leaving him breathless and panting as he continued. “Of course ya were. Should have guessed it. Well, ya needn't fret, it's all in one piece, ain't like there's anythin' else ya shoulda cared about.”

Angela looked wounded. She didn’t step back, though, just remained where she was, hands still out in a gesture of peace. Jamison sneered at her.

“Fawkes,” Morrison said, “now is not the time-”

“No! It's never the bloody time, is it? It's always just whatever you want, whatever you think is best, ya never listen to me! Ya send me off on a mission without me mate when I tell ya it's a bad idea, ya let an omnic in here without sayin' a word to me, ya won't let me on operations no more, ya lock me in a room with the fuckin' bot and act like I'm the one who fucked up, and I'm sick to fuckin' hell with it! Ya never listen to what I say!”

Mako’s arm was out to hold him back, but Jamison made no attempt to advance. He was a seething, vicious mess, and it was an anger he seemed to cling to. Maybe it was the easiest emotion for him to deal with under the circumstances. 

“The chain of command-”

“Fuck the chain of command!” Jamison shrieked, almost giddily. “I shoulda bailed on this place months ago! Everythin' I do is always wrong an' ya never make any sense!”

He pointed one shaking finger in Morrison’s direction, his breathing ragged. There was a glint to his eyes though, and Zenyatta thought there was something about the situation that was familiar. He was learning more about the man by the day. 

Jamison looked for threats. And sometimes… sometimes, if he couldn’t find them, he tried to make them. Because it was easier for him to deal with a fight, with something he understood, than fear or betrayal or a calm and reasonable discussion right after a moment of heightened distress. He was spoiling for a fight because it granted him control.

He wanted Morrison to snap at him. He wagered on it.

Zenyatta was half way to cautioning the commander as such, but when he turned his head the older man had his arms folded and was watching Jamison with grave intensity.

“Alright then,” he said, “what do you want to say?”

And that was that. Another answer that had never really been what he’d sought.

Jamison blinked. All at once the fight seemed to drain out of him, his shoulders slumping and his eyes dancing off elsewhere. “I don't know,” he said wretchedly, “don't know... can't bloody think right now...”

He stood in silence for a while, not looking at anyone while he drew one breath after the other, the last lingering tremors finally leaving his frame. Eventually he glanced up, lips pursed. “Ya catch whatever dipstick broke in?”

Morrison shook his head. “They disappeared after Athena completed her scan, some sort of teleportation device. We got an image of them before they got out. Thought-”

“Good,” Jamison cut him off. “Good. Then it ain’t my problem. Come on, Hog, got places to be.”

“Hold it, Fawkes, that's an order! We still need to talk.”

Jamison spun back with clenched fists. “I told ya I can't! I can't think right now! Hooley dooley, do ya ever fuckin' listen?”

“That doesn't change-”

“Perhaps,” Zenyatta broke in before matters could worsen, “it might be wise for us to take a chance to focus, to find some clarity before we take this further.”

Morrison glanced over at him as if he’d forgotten he existed. It seemed the right thing to say though. A little of the tension broke, and Ana smiled at him approvingly.

“He has a point, Jack,” she said, setting a hand on the commander's shoulder. “You're pretty tense yourself.”

Morrison’s expression was conflicted. “I'm not- we can't just ignore-”

“We'll all have a nice talk later,” Ana assured him in her motherly tone, and Angela and Fareeha nodded along.

Any protests he might have made quickly died as he found himself outnumbered, and he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as if fighting back a headache. “Alright, fine. But soon, this isn't going to be swept under the rug.”

“Of course not,” Ana said, turning her attention to the Junker. “You'll be staying in headquarters, won't you Jamison?” 

He appeared to chew over the question. In the end he just shrugged. “Probably.”

His vague agreement was apparently enough, because Ana gave him a nod, and a smile settled upon her weathered features. “Alright, we'll give you some time to get back to your usual self, you be good now. I don't want to hear you've been getting up to trouble in the meantime.”

“Yeah yeah,” Jamison muttered, tugging on Hog's arm. “Come on, mate, we're outta here.”

The group watched as he bid a hasty retreat, soon disappearing down the end of the corridor and around the corner. Where they were going was anyone’s guess. Zenyatta hoped it was somewhere quiet where they might soothe their nerves, and leave the conflict behind long enough to gain some sort of perspective on the situation. He wasn't ruling out wanton destruction though. Jamison had looked as if he wanted to destroy something. 

Eventually Morrison shook his head and let out another sigh. “How did it come to this?” 

Whether it was rhetorical or not, Angela chose to answer.

“We should have prepared steps…” she said softly, folding her arms across her chest. “We should have done more to make sure they were properly integrated, rather than expecting Jamison to come to terms with it in his own time. We all thought their initial meeting would be the real hurdle, but we should have known better.”

“That doesn’t…”

“No, it doesn’t excuse it, but we failed them both, Jack. We shouldn’t have let it get to this point.”

There was something almost sharp in her tone, the closest Zenyatta had ever heard her come to admitting irritation. 

“We can’t let him think this is acceptable,” Morrison said.

It seemed the conversation was about to start going in circles, always back to that one statement. And there was nothing wrong with that statement in itself... but the rest, no one could agree on, which unfortunately didn't stop them talking. Zenyatta was glad to have mastered the art of inner peace, otherwise he was sure he would have been greatly irritated to see his good work undone so quickly.

Ana became the voice of reason. Once she loudly suggested they put the matter to bed until morning, it didn't take long for Morrison to fold, effectively ending the discussion. 

Instead he turned to Zenyatta. “You’ve taken everything pretty calmly, but this must have been hard,” he said, in what was probably his gentlest tone. “I’ll have someone posted to keep watch on the off chance anything happens, but I doubt it will be an issue. We’ll discuss this between ourselves and inform you of our decision before we talk to Fawkes tomorrow.”

“In that case, would you be willing to entertain my own thoughts on the matter before then?”

The request appeared to surprise him. His eyebrows shot up and for the briefest of moments his expression was uncertain, examining Zenyatta as if he were a puzzle he couldn't quite fit together. Had he considered him submissive enough to defer judgement to others without first speaking his piece? Or perhaps distant enough that the outcome did not trouble him? Or was it something else?

Then just as swiftly his scarred face moulded itself back into his usual stern countenance, a man in perfect control. The unwavering commander he was meant to be. “If there is information you wish to bring to our attention, we will be happy to hear it in the morning, but I can’t involve you directly in the decision making process. That would be against procedure.”

“Of course,” Zenyatta said, while he internally weighed the odds of ever persuading the man to join him for a cup of tea and a heart to heart. “Thank you for the opportunity regardless commander, I look forward to seeing this resolved.”

Morrison dipped his head, enough to indicate an agreement. There was little else to say after that. With no need for extra security, Fareeha was the first to leave, and Ana and Morrison were not far behind, both heading the same direction down the corridor.

“I need coffee,” Zenyatta heard him mutter distantly before they finally disappeared from view.

“Rest, Jack. What you need is rest,” Ana’s voice said with a faint chuckle. “You should try it sometime.”

Then it was just Zenyatta and Angela left in the corridor. He had expected her to leave with Fareeha, since the two of them had always seemed close as far as he could tell, or even excuse herself to tackle whatever pile of paperwork awaited her at her desk. She did neither.

When he looked at her quizzically she gave him a smile. “Would you mind walking back to the medical ward with me?”

“I assure you, I sustained no injuries,” he said, once again gesturing to himself. 

“Oh…” She blinked. “Oh, I believe you. I was only hoping for somewhere we might speak privately.”

That was more interesting. He canted his head to the side, thinking for a moment before he settled on the most likely probability. “Ah, you are curious as to what happened in there?”

“Guilty as charged,” she said, her smile turning wry. “It would help with my records, if nothing else… but… and I do hope I am not wrong in saying this... I have the feeling we might have a similar goal.”

A goal? Zenyatta supposed it would be meaningless to pretend he hadn’t already made his mind up by that point, although it surprised him that Angela could tell. He had spoken nothing of his thoughts on the latest murder attempt, except to express his hopes for a resolution. Resolution could come in many forms though. The Iris might teach forgiveness, but it was not blind to the crimes of others and nor did it speak of a world free from consequence. Not everyone could be saved, and it was not the duty of the enlightened to risk their lives in the pursuit of such a goal. 

It was a choice. One freely made… 

“You worry about him,” he said, more of an observation that a question.

Angela shrugged. “I worry about everybody,” she said. “Jack’s right, what Jamison did was absolutely wrong. However…”

“The path of learning is not one free from mistakes. Compassion is not weakness. And these circumstances are… unique.”

She let out a breath, and her expression was relieved. “Yes.”

Zenyatta wondered if Jamison realised how fortunate he was to have such people in his corner. He wondered if he even knew.

Tilting his head forward in the smallest of bows, he gestured down the corridor for her to lead the way. “I would be glad to accompany you, Angela. Your own thoughts are always of great interest to me.”

* * *

They spent almost an hour in the medical ward together, methodically going through the file Angela had been building on the case of Jamison Fawkes. There was some discussion between them on how much should be spelled out in detail, and how much was better left unsaid, as a matter of privacy if nothing else. Whether it was enough for allowances to be made… they would have to wait and see. 

“He’s been making progress,” she told him, “I don’t know how many people have noticed, but he has. This has all just been a bit of a setback.”

“That is the first time I’ve heard attempted murder described as a ‘bit of a setback’.”

Angela winced. “My apologies. I didn’t mean...”

“I take no offence,” he assured her. “He’s not the first person to try.”

Her eyes widened at that, appraising him with renewed curiosity. “You must tell me more of your travels sometime,” she said at last.

“Sometime,” he agreed.

Genji arrived not long into their chat, and maintained an air of confusion as he was promptly shooed outside and left to languish in the corridor. Zenyatta could see him pacing through the windows. 

He left his former pupil to wait as they settled the final pieces of their defence. Whether it would fly, Angela admitted she was unsure. Zenyatta’s position as the potential victim added some weight to their opinion on an appropriate response, and Jamison’s history could not be dismissed… it really came down to whether that was enough.

Was this something anyone deserved a second chance for?

How could they trust it would not happen again? Was it enough to take it on faith?

“Well, we’ve done what we can for now,” she said, packing away the papers strewn across her desk. “Jack’s not going to sleep a wink tonight, but I think the least we can do is make sure we’re well rested.”

It was sound advice. Bidding her a pleasant night, Zenyatta left the medical ward behind, and floated outside to find out if Genji had managed to wear a hole in the floor yet.

His former pupil had very little to say as they travelled back to Zenyatta’s quarters, but he knew better than to think that meant there was nothing troubling him.

Zenyatta suspected that was something the Shimada brothers shared in common - a penchant for brooding, to retreat inside their own minds even when there was no peace to be found there. 

In his early days amongst the Shambali, Genji had been much worse. There, he had alternated between bitter silence and outbursts of anger and frustration, quick to storm off the moment he felt something wasn’t working.

Zenyatta never raised his voice in turn though. He always listened. He was always there the next day, ready for their morning meditation regardless of what Genji had said. And the cyborg was always there too. Sullen, unapologetic, but there. He tried, and so Zenyatta tried as well, and slowly something began to fall into place. 

The contrast between those earlier times was always a stark reminder of how far they had come. These days, Genji’s quieter moments had a more pensive air, and it took little coaxing to get him to unburden his troubles.

Zenyatta still waited until they reached the comfort of his room before he addressed the cyborg properly. “Tell me your thoughts, Genji.”

In the smaller confines his quarters set, his pacing was reduced to circling the walls, staring at the few possessions Zenyatta had bothered to bring with him. 

“I asked you to come here, but perhaps that was selfish of me. I placed you in danger,” Genji said, speaking to the open book on the table rather than the omnic himself.

Zenyatta sighed internally. It appeared his former pupil had been doing a lot of thinking since the fireworks, and this was not the conclusion he had hoped for him to reach. Still, he had known something was brewing.

Lowering himself down, he patted the space in front of him. Genji took the invitation as soon as he noticed, sitting cross legged on the floor so that they faced one another with only a few respectful feet between them.

“I did not come here expecting an absence of risk,” Zenyatta explained. “Overwatch confronts Talon at every turn, danger was something I anticipated, if not in this particular form. I answered your invitation because of your own conviction that Overwatch could help the world find peace.”

Genji shook his head. “There are other ways to do that. Mondatta-”

“Mondatta protested peacefully, and it still cost him his life.” The name still hurt to speak. He would not soften its blow though, not for either of them. “I, too, wish for a world where human and omnic may live in harmony, but I will not stand on a pedestal and preach our virtues. Mondatta was a wise man, but his ways are not my own. I have spent many years travelling, and I have always found direct connections to be the most important, the most meaningful. I came here for _you_ , Genji, and I stay for everyone here, and for everyone we can reach, one person at a time.”

“The world doesn’t _change_ one person at a time.”

“Ah, but is each person not a world in themselves?” he asked, a light and teasing note weaving its way into his voice. 

Genji was not amused. His posture was tense, but his voice was still low, near pleading. “Master, please… you cannot help those who refuse you. Whatever you are thinking, he tried to kill you.”

Zenyatta held out his arms. “And yet here I am.”

“Luck will not always take your side.”

“Then what shall you do, Genji? Shall you cut him down to save me?”

That brought a moment of silence. The cyborg turned his head away and his hands left his lap to instead settle on his knees, where they tightened.

“I’ve thought on it.”

“But you won’t.”

There was another pause, longer than Zenyatta would have liked. Genji's hands tightened further. “I will not sully my blade with blood if there is no need. Let Morrison and the others be rid of him, you do him no favours.”

In some ways, he could be right… staying would always be the hardest option for Jamison. There he would have to work to correct his mistakes, to learn, to earn his forgiveness from every person he had let down with his actions, and none of that was an easy task to undertake. If he failed, the consequences were dire. To cast him out left him free to return to a life he was familiar with…

Yet what future awaited him there?

It was a curious thing for a criminal of such notoriety to carve a place in an organisation bent on protecting the world, and he could only hope that it was a mark of something more, the desire to change course in search of something better… to adapt. To overcome. Certainly he had no interest in bettering the peace efforts between humans and omnics, but he had chosen Overwatch for a reason, and it did not feel like a mistake. There was something here he wanted. Whether it was best for him, that was something he would have to discover on his own. 

Angela had said he was making progress. Hana and Lucio spoke of him with great affection. His bravery on the last disaster of a mission was common knowledge. And yes, there was the troubling detail of a few pesky murder attempts and an open contempt for omnics of any kind, but he was still a source of great fascination for Zenyatta. A challenge that was difficult to resist... It would be a shame to see the story end so soon.

“The world has done him no favours,” he told Genji, since that was a far simpler answer, and equally as true. “All I offer is patience.”

“Why?”

Zenyatta shrugged. “Because I am generous.”

“Master…” His voice was both exasperated and imploring. 

“Because, Genji, I do not think he will see another chance,” he said. “I intend to argue on his behalf so this one is not taken away. Did you know I just spent a few very enlightening minutes locked in a room with him?”

Reeling back, Genji stared at him. “You what?”

So that was news to him then… Evidently no one had bothered to share that particular detail. He wondered what Genji might have done had he been aware at the time. Leaving him with McCree had been a wise choice, and not one he regretted.

“If I thought cruelty his sole motive, we would not be having this conversation. I have met cruel men before.”

Genji scoffed. “You think he isn’t one of them?”

“Oh, he has the capacity for cruelty, but only in the same way you ever did. Anger and hatred were your enemies, and fear his own. Seeing you finally at peace with yourself brought me great joy. It saddens me that not everyone will find their way so easily.”

The words must have had an effect, because Genji did not speak immediately. Zenyatta was content to watch as he worked his way through whatever he wanted to say. Slowly, the tension drained from his posture, but it felt more like an act of defeat than one of relaxation, and once again he turned his face away so he did not have to look directly into Zenyatta’s sensors.

“It was not easy,” he admitted in a quieter voice. “I cannot agree with you, but nor can I stop you. All I ask is that you weigh this decision carefully. It is no dishonor upon you to let him face the consequences of his own actions, you owe him nothing.”

Zenyatta nodded, acknowledging the logic behind the statement, but he could not give him the answer he wanted. He would not lie. “I do not decide what I give based only on what I owe, nor what another is entitled to. That is not that nature of generosity. I value your advice greatly, my friend, but I have chosen my path.”

“I know,” Genji replied, and he thought there might be a fondness in the way he said it. 

Perhaps that was the truest testament to their friendship… that even now, even when they disagreed, there was no animosity between them. He could not force Genji to relinquish his protective nature, he would not be the man he was without it. Nor could Genji strip him of his tolerance, or the stubborn streak that had always set him apart from his brothers and sisters amongst the Shambali. What they had was understanding. It had taken years to build… it was something he treasured greatly. While Genji might harbour some ill placed guilt for inviting him here, Zenyatta held no regrets in coming.

“If he hurts you, I will make no promises though,” cyborg added.

Zenyatta chuckled at that, and he did not argue. “I would not expect you to. No… one more chance is enough, I think… what he does with it is up to him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I going to regret posting this without editing further? Probably. Is that going to stop me? Evidently not...  
> Anyways, in case you haven't noticed this is going to have to be three parts because apparently I can't breeze through a scene the way I should do. Who knows how far away part 3 is.
> 
> And yes, to anyone actually trying to read this by itself and feeling very confused, this is a spin off from my main fic 'gaining ground' which covers Junkrat's perspective. If you're only interested in seeing Zen, the events in this fic start around the end of chapter 17.


	3. Chapter 3

The third time Jamison approached him, Zenyatta was determined to remain objective about the situation. 

Yes, if he was to tally up all of their past interactions he would be forced to admit that finding the man sneaking up behind him was not a promising sign… there was, however, something about Jamison’s behavior that was different. 

From Zenyatta’s position in front of the curved windows of the observation deck, the light from the setting sun reflected off the tablet he held and gave him a clear image of the man. It was evident that he was attempting to be stealthy, keeping to what he thought was the omnic’s blind side and moving with painstaking slowness. When he got close enough though, he simply… stopped.

For a long while he did nothing but stand there and stare at Zenyatta’s back.

Did he have something planned?

Yet despite his narrowed eyes and tense shoulders, there was something hesitant about him, as if he couldn’t quite work out how to take the next step. So he stood, and Zenyatta pretended not to have noticed anything at all.

He would confess, despite the way the moment hung heavy at the edge of an indeterminate crossroads, he was a little curious as to what the man’s game was. To harm him now would spell his immediate expulsion. Besides which, both of Jamison’s previous attempts on his life had been carefully plotted, and this did not fit the pattern…

Then it struck him - the one detail that had been glaring him right in the face. Jamison was not carrying his frag launcher.

Ever since their first meeting, Jamison had kept the weapon glued to him. He never used it, of course, but it was always within reach, always slung over his shoulder or resting easy in his grip. It was his trump card, the reassurance he needed that when all else failed he had the means of destruction at his disposal.

Now it was gone. 

He might have had his favourite confiscated the night before, but the man had spares, Zenyatta had seen them. Something had changed.

He took the time to make a more careful study of the man, but he was unable to determine anything of use besides the fact that he clearly wanted to be anywhere else. Whatever this was supposed to be, Jamison was not making the first move, so Zenyatta decided to take matters into his own hands. 

Turning away from his tablet he kept his tone light and pleasant, and asked, “Did you need something, Jamison?”

The junker startled at the sound. His right hand reached backward reflectively but paused when it found empty space and he seemed to realise his mistake. Immediately he shifted his posture, attempting to play the gesture off as nothing but his usual anxious fidgeting.

“No,” he snapped. 

Zenyatta considered him thoughtfully. There was still a stiffness to him, as if bracing himself for something, his focus sharp and his wild eyes locked onto the floating figure before him as if they could fix it in place. Jamison did not move forward, but nor did he retreat. He just stood there, as frozen as he had been while Zenyatta had watched him in the reflection of his tablet screen, and he could not decipher the reason for it.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “You've been standing there a while.”

“No, I...”

Jamison trailed off, his mouth still moving for a moment as if trying to speak but no sound emerged. He continued to stare at Zenyatta. That same contempt, that same concoction of carefully masked fear and burning anger behind eyes that normally moved so rapidly across their surroundings. But still he did not move. 

Just as the omnic was about to prompt him, Jamison grit his teeth and finally continued. “Was just... I mean...” He took a breath, clasping his hands together to keep them in place. “I... fuck it, alright, yeah, I'm sorry. There, I said it!”

And then he laughed.

Zenyatta hovered in stunned silence. Was this… an apology? The shambling approximation of one at least? It barely even counted, he could have brushed it aside, yet Jamison looked so inexplicably _relieved_ , half the tension he’d been carrying drained from him in an instant as if a great weight had been pulled from his shoulders. 

So he did not dismiss it. He did not shake his head, or point out how feeble two simple words were when measured against his crimes. Instead, he simply asked, “Are you?”

His voice snapped the junker out of whatever mood had suddenly taken him. His grin fled, his eyes turned to slits, and when he spoke it was with an edge of suspicion. “Maybe.”

“And what would it be that you are sorry for?”

Jamison considered this for a moment, and then shrugged. “For tryin' to off ya. Figured that was obvious.”

“So is it remorse that you are feeling right now, or have you realized that my death would bring consequences with it?”

“The fuck does it matter? Apologized, didn't I? What else do ya want?”

“An apology is meaningless if there is no sentiment to it. I wish to understand what you are thinking. Then I will be able to accept or decline your apology.”

Jamison's eyes widened. “You can decline?”

Zenyatta almost felt sorry for him. This was clearly outside of his usual area of expertise, and under other circumstances it might have been amusing to see how he floundered, but he needed to see this for what it was. Jamison used an apology as if it was something to be tossed, thrown as if the words themselves were the only tool he needed, the only part that mattered, and he needed more than that to see if this was anything but an imitation. Because there was something here that was different than before, something new, and he wanted to hope, wanted to believe, but he had told himself that he would remain objective. 

Zenyatta was no fool. Jamison could say one thing, and mean another entirely. 

He still softened his words as he spoke again. “Of course. One may apologize for their actions, but it is not up to them if that is enough to restore balance.”

Jamison appeared to absorb this. His shoulders hunched, his brows knit together, and as he fell into silence his hands wandered in restless circles. He was thinking though, chewing over the problem with genuine focus as if it were something he could pull apart and reassemble, as if the answer was _important_. It was a far, far better reaction that the one Zenyatta had wagered on, and the longer he waited the more he found his curiosity growing.

Eventually Jamison cleared his throat. He tipped his chin up, poured a little defiance into his posture, confidence he wore like armour. “I reckon ya still a _thing_ , ain't a person... an' I don't want ya here...” 

Zenyatta just nodded. It must have been the right response, because Jamison only hesitated for a moment before he carried on with more conviction. “But ya ain't tried to kill me yet, and I reckon you would have if ya wanted... didn't have to try covering for me neither. Or... or any of that stuff... but ya did, so maybe what I'm thinkin' is there ain't as much of a reason to get rid of ya as I thought... woulda been... unnecessary. So I'm sorry for that. And I don't like ya, I don't trust ya, I don't even bloody _understand_ ya, but maybe... maybe you’re not what I was thinkin' ya were...”

He trailed off, apparently finished. 

Zenyatta said nothing.

It was… quite frankly, an awful apology by any standard. It wasn’t warm, or sorrowful, or guild ridden, or tinged with embarrassment… and yet… and yet it was _honest_. He had not lied, nor skirted around the matter, he’d simply told him quite plainly where they stood. 

It struck him, then, that this was the first time Jamison had really spoken to him, more than threats, more than accusations… it was the closest they had come to a conversation, and that in itself was a wonder. 

“There, that answer ya question?” Jamison demanded.

Zenyatta drew himself out of his own internal musing. Did it? Yes, he supposed it did.

“Thank you, Jamison,” he said, bowing his head. “I accept your apology.”

When he looked back up the man was still watching him, guarded, like he was unsure what to expect next. “This don't mean we're friends.”

Despite himself, Zenyatta nearly laughed. Two direct attacks on his life and weeks of insults and aggression, and still, he found the need to clarify.

“I should hope not!” he said, amusement weaving its way through his tone. “Nevertheless, I am grateful you took the time to speak to me. I hope that your trust is something I may eventually be able to earn, but for now I will settle for an end to the murder attempts.”

* * *

Some people believed that omnics were incapable of feeling, of sensation, when they were wholly metal beings, but Zenyatta knew this to be false. The sunlight was warm against his faceplate. He knew, because he had heat sensors. If asked to describe the feeling he would have called it pleasant. If asked why he considered the temperature anything more than data transferred to his central processor, he would have asked a philosophical question of his own, because sometimes that was what it took to remind people of their own abstract existence in a physical body that was more than the sum of its parts. The sun was warm, and Zenyatta basked in it.

Behind him the soft tread of footsteps picked their way across the clifftop.

“Good morning, Genji,” he said, without bothering to turn. 

The cyborg might not have joined him for every sunrise, but he had not doubted his presence on this occasion - his former pupil had been keeping close tabs on him since the incident with the fireworks, taking the time to check in on him regularly despite Zenyatta’s insistence that it was unnecessary. 

There was also no mistaking the particular care he took in ensuring his approach could be heard.

He waited until the man reached his side, then tilted his head to look up at him. Zenyatta could not smile, but if he could, it would have been smug. “Jamison apologised to me.”

Genji considered this for a moment. “I think I must have misheard you, master.”

“You heard me perfectly.”

“Jamison Fawkes?” he said after a beat. “Junkrat? Apologised to you?”

“That is correct.”

“And you are sure it was not… sarcastic?”

“It was the most sincere I believe I have seen him,” Zenyatta said, and he meant it.

Slowly, Genji lowered himself down until he was sitting, unclasping his faceplate and turning his head up to catch the sunrise. His skin was as pale as ever, eyes narrowed against the sudden brightness, but his expression was pensive. 

They sat like that for a while, simply enjoying the warmth, the stillness, the lull of the ocean as it lapped against the sides of the cliff and the light steadily shifted from red to golden, glittering off the waters below. 

“I suppose I owe you an apology myself,” Genji said at last. “It seems you have achieved the impossible after all.”

Zenyatta chucked. “Impossible? No. Challenging? Perhaps. I consider this merely the first step toward something greater, but it is a rewarding one to take. Maybe someday he will sit as you and I do, and we may converse as true friends.”

“Now that,” Genji said with a laugh, “does sound impossible.”

Zenyatta just turned back to regard the view. “One can always dream.”

And maybe he would find that that was all it ever was, a dream, a hope, a fantasy… but that was what the world was built upon. It was the unending quest for something meaningful amidst the chaos of the universe, in finding a dream worth striving for, in people worth knowing, and understanding that the journey itself was just as valuable.

Perhaps he would never fully unravel the mystery of Jamison Fawkes. Perhaps they would never bridge that gap between them. But for today, he was just a little closer, and he was content to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I should do some more editing, maybe add another scene, but I think I just want this to be done... so it's done. At the very least I hope it was some kind of insight into Zenyatta's perspective. 
> 
> And for anyone wondering, yes, I am still working on 'gaining ground', a new chapter will be out eventually, I'm just... dealing with stuff and not at my most productive. Honestly a part if me is kind of terrified to continue cos I have this feeling that it just won't live up to expectations and I'll be letting people down, but I know I'm being irrational, and that's something I need to deal with. I'll get there.

**Author's Note:**

> So... my doctor thinks I'm depressed. Which, honestly, would explain why writing's been hard for me recently. I do want people to understand that I'm not abandoning projects though. A lot's going on in the world right now, so make sure you all stay safe!


End file.
